


Re-educating you

by ApocalypseThen



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/F, Interrogation, POV Second Person, Racism, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 17:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApocalypseThen/pseuds/ApocalypseThen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You submitted your report about Captain Phasma in good faith. You were not expecting to be interrogated. You're even more surprised to find yourself enjoying it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Re-educating you

**Author's Note:**

> For the TFA kmeme:
> 
> http://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/4613.html?thread=11439109#cmt11439109

You're sure you did the right thing. This isn't the Second, Third or Fourth Order, it's not called the First Union, Society, or Commonwealth. You joined the First Order, damn it, and the rules are pretty clear. No Freakin' Aliens.

So why do you still feel like you're the one who's in trouble? It might have something to do with the shackles at your ankles, waist and wrists. But you signed up for this, you tell yourself. You were sick and tired of the liberal bullshit being forced down your throat, of seeing, time and again, aliens being given special treatment, and humans being treated like dirt. You were fed up of feeling ashamed. You tried manual labor, but the Wookies did twice your work for half the pay. You thought about dancing, but those slutty Twi'lek bitches would do anything for cash, and you would never stoop so low.

You signed up like a shot when the First Order came to town. Finally, you saw humans living up to their potential, organised, motivated. You wanted to be part of that. You're a true believer, and they know it. You haven't always understood your orders, but you've always followed them. So there's no need to be nervous. The interrogation is standard protocol. You'd be disappointed if they took any half-measures, if they slipped up and let something through.

That's why you'd been so shocked in the first place. You'd had such faith in the system that it was inconceivable that a mistake like that could have been made. How could she have gone so long without anybody noticing?

Your interrogator arrives. An officer you've never met before, trim and proper in his... wait, her uniform. You were fooled for a moment by the lack of curves. Everyone takes care to stay in shape in the First Order. Fatties aren't tolerated. Slacking isn't allowed. It's wonderful.

“Do you know why you're here?” she asks. Definitely a her, from the voice.

Your mouth is dry and your voice cracks a little, but your reply is confident. “I stand by my report. Ma'am.”

She studies you for a long moment. You hold fast under that cool gaze. She looks away first, shuffling her papers, and you count that as a win. “Captain Phasma is an alien.”

“Yes ma'am.” It's the truth.

She smirks at you. She's so smug you can feel it. You prickle indignantly, and then try to hold it in. She's just rattling your cage. “A girl alien or a boy alien?”

That throws you for a loop. “What difference does it make?”

She takes a step back. “The difference between your survival and your... re-education.”

It shouldn't be so sinister but it is. Partly because of the unspoken dark urge you think everyone has, the desire to be taken and turned into a something purer and more deadly. You've only seen the results, not the method. They're dull, the re-educated, but undeniably effective. Still, it's no more than a fantasy, not something you would actually want. “She sounds female,” you say finally.

“Do I sound female?” asks your interrogator. 

You nod.

“And yet I have a penis.”

You don't know quite what to say. You don't know if you believe her. But you're not stupid. You're not about to ask for proof. “You are going to make an argument about the Captain.”

“Yes.”

“Then she is an alien,” you insist. She makes a note on her papers and you feel scared. You resolve to be more cooperative. 

“The purpose of this interrogation is to determine the extent of your relationship with Captain Phasma. You are charged with gross insubordination. If it were up to me, you would have been sent to re-education already, merely as a precaution,” she says. “But it is not up to me.”

You don't know where to start unpacking that. She's attacking on all fronts. Your stupid-bone, the one that links your brain directly to your groin, speaks up first. “Relationship?” you say in a dopey voice. You curse yourself roundly.

“Are you in love with Captain Phasma?” she asks.

You're thrown off balance. Your mouth hangs open. You do... did have a crush on her. But you knew it was always going to be unrequited, and once you found out what was underneath that armor, you were more disgusted that anything else. But you know you can't say any of that. “My respect for the Captain was purely professional.”

“Until you found out that she was an alien?”

“Yes.” You can't say anything else. She's always been an outstanding soldier.

“And then you reported her to the general immediately?”

“Yes. Pursuant to section four of the code, subsection twelve, a report concerning an officer must be submitted to an officer of superior rank.”

“So you believe in the letter of the law,” she says.

“Of course.”

“Without flexibility.”

You can see that this is a trap of some kind, but you can't find a way to sidestep it. “It is not my place to say.”

“Can you explain to me what my argument is, then?”

“The one about your penis?” you say dumbly, hoping too late that it doesn't get mistaken for sarcasm. You hurry on, trying to cover it up. “You think how someone acts is more important than what they are. You think the code should be interpreted to allow this.”

“Very good.”

“But she's still an alien!” you wail. “She doesn't have a face! She's slime and suckers!”

She turns away from you for a moment. She addresses the wall. “Do you suppose that we are stupid?” she asks, her voice dangerously even. “Do you suppose that we didn't know?”

You feel betrayed. Hurt and angry. But more than that, you feel the loss of Phasma acutely, although you never had her for yourself in the first place. The loss of your hero, your crush. You can still see her armor in your mind's eye, striding the halls of Starkiller Base. Did it truly matter what was inside, if she strove in the service of the Order? You thought it did. But if the higher-ups were OK with it, you could be pragmatic. You just wanted certainty.

She looks at you again, and it must be written on your face. You never wanted to buck the system. You were scared. You'll do as you're told. But her voice doesn't soften. “It's worse than that,” she says. “Do you think the Captain is an idiot, too?”

She waits for your response. You shrink back in your restraints and avert your gaze. “No, ma'am.” You feel like you should make an effort. “I could never think that. She's won too many victories.” It's true. It's why everyone watches Phasma, and not a few spend their off hours speculating about what she looks like under the metal. Running the gamut from princess to ogre, the range of theories has never to your knowledge included 'slick tentacle beast'.

“Then perhaps you have super-human powers of observation, Lieutenant, to see something that no-one else could see?”

“No, ma'am,” you say. “It must have just been luck.”

She snorts. “I think she let you see her, Lieutenant,” she says. “I think she wanted you to see her as she really is. And your first response was to betray her.”

You're confused. “Why? Why would she take the risk?” you ask.

“Until you can answer that question to my satisfaction, this interrogation will continue,” she says. The she turns on her heel and stalks out. 

Although you have a million questions fighting for priority in your head, you still watch her retreating ass and try to gauge what she's packing in her uniform trousers.

You struggle against your restraints for a moment but it's futile. They give a little, but spring back immediately. You can't so much as scratch yourself on a sharp edge.

Why would Phasma reveal herself to you, in particular? You're nobody special. You're good at your job, your performance reviews would make you proud if you weren't conditioned to be such a good team player. Otherwise you could be anybody on Starkiller. 

Your nose itches. It itches fiercely. You really need to be thinking how to survive the next session with your interrogator, but you can't think about anything else. You puff and gurn, you twist your neck to find a surface to rub against, but to no avail. You shut your eyes and try to to take deep breaths, try to calm yourself.

It works. The itching recedes, your nose feels cool. You consciously try to relax the rest of your muscles, you work your shoulders against the interrogation stand. It feels marvellous, the padding beneath you pushes back in all the right places. You start to push with your butt as well, trying to unclench a little. You didn't realise how tense you were. It's good.

You really should be thinking about your predicament. But you're thinking about Phasma. You're thinking about her before you knew what she was, imagining being cradled in that hard armor, pinned between that plate and a bulkhead. It's a fantasy you know you'll have to let go, now. 

Or will you? Just pretend she's human. She acts like one. It's obviously important to her to pass as one. And it's all for the advancement of the First Order. Does it really matter that she doesn't have a face, under there?

You realise that you feel safe. You're here in the bosom of the First Order, in the interrogation room. It's as much a symbol of the whole movement as anything else. The relentless, merciless search for the truth. You're proud to be playing your part, right now. You snuggle against the restraints as best you can and breathe a sigh of contentment. You're finding being helpless to be quite relaxing. You test your bonds again, just for the pleasure of feeling how firm they are.

If anything they're a little tighter than they were, and it feels nice. You let everything go this time, all the bottled up emotions, and you start to cry a little bit.

Your cheeks don't get wet. That's what puzzles you. You're crying, not a flood, but at least a trickle that should end up dripping off your chin. But there's nothing there. You open your eyes, finally.

A wet pink organ lies draped across your face. As your eyes cross to try and focus on it, it shivers and pets the tip of your nose, incidentally mopping a tear from your cheek as it does so. You stop breathing. Your body tenses everywhere.

“Ah, Lieutenant,” says a voice at your ear. You can't mistake it. It's Phasma. You wrench and yank at your limbs but you're held fast. You look down at your shackles. How could you have failed to notice their pinkness, their oozing slickness against the black of your uniform? And now new bands of pink writhe and wriggle up from behind you, encircling you at the elbows, thighs, and chest. Something feels its way around your shoulders and you feel a frisson of excitement as your new necklace snaps tight.

You panic. But there's nothing you can do. She caresses you in firm peristaltic waves from your ankles to your crown. “Captain, I...” you start, but you don't know what to say.

“Shh,” says Phasma, and the tentacle at your neck throbs. “You can tell her, it's because you're special. It's because Captain Phasma wants you. She admires your sincerity so very much.”

Phasma, the alien who wants to be human, has a crush on you because of your staunchly racist views. You're not too stupid to see the irony. But you can't say any of that to your interrogator. “She'll send me for re-education.”

Phasma's laugh is full of mockery. “What do you think I'm about to do to you?” she asks.

Her tentacles have access to every square inch of you by now. They go to work. It's a massage made in heaven and your body betrays you. The excitement builds within you, you pant and moan as she slips and slides under your clothes. A pair of stubby probes undulate in your vision and head for your mouth. They dance around your tongue, darting and caressing for long moments until your disgust turns to hunger. Then she sends them in and they stuff your cheeks, you feel them coiling and uncoiling. You fight them with your tongue but they're too powerful. Your head is forced back against something that should be a firm headrest, but that squishes and sucks at you.

She finds your other holes and teases the openings until you're a quivering mass. Circling and squeezing, you'd be begging already if you could get a word out. She goes for the backdoor first, plugging you up with a fat, throbbing organ. You moan and bite down on the mass in your mouth, but it fights back. The more you squeeze with your jaw, the fatter the tentacle in your ass feels. You squeeze as hard as you can.

Phasma has mercy on you. She positions one delicate frond to pluck at your clit while she plunges a meaty one into your sex. It doesn't take long. She plays your whole body, running the waves of your orgasm out to the tips of your toes, drawing it out. You've never been read so completely, she's responsive to your every quiver and twitch.

It barely tempers your pleasure at all when you realise that it's better than any human lover could ever be. For Phasma, you'll make an exception.


End file.
